


I Could Drink A Case Of You

by wraithwitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is very patient, Blindness, Crowley is an angry snek who swears a lot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hastur breaks Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It turns out fine I promise, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithwitch/pseuds/wraithwitch
Summary: "The upper echelons of Hell go in for periodic torture sessions against demons who’ve displeased them. It’s all par for the course in a place that sees the removal of fingernails more as a practical joke than actual torture..."





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley is about to be summoned to Hell. Not _summoned_ summoned, Hell can’t actually do that, better to say he will shortly receive a summons.

Crowley is driving the Bentley towards Jermyn Street where he and Aziraphale are going to have lunch at Fortnum’s. The radio has been playing something not wholly offensive by some new pop diva, when it crackles to static and - “Crowley,” the diva croons.

 _Shit_. His mouth twists in annoyance. _What do they want now?_ “Er, yeah, hi, who is this?”

“Hastur, Duke of Hell.”

 _Shitshitshitshitshit._ “How’s it going?” Nonchalance is frequently his first defence.

“You are to return to Hell, Crowley.”

“Spot of bother with some paper work is there?”

“The sooner you return, the sooner we can get this over and done with.”

“No time for lunch then?”

“Do not be tardy, Crowley. It will not go so well if I must come and fetch you.”

“Right. Sure. I’ll er, just, come right over…”

“See that you do.”

Crowley leans forward and slams the off button on the radio with a shudder. Hearing Hastur speak in that voice had been disturbing. But more disturbing is the question of what Hell wants.

Both Heaven and Hell have done their best to pretend that Crowley and Aziraphale have ceased to exist after the Notocalypse. The angel still works his little miracles and the demon indulges in the odd temptation: they both send in their quarterly reports that Heaven and Hell file in the nearest rubbish bin.

He sighs and orders his hand-free set to call Aziraphale.

There’s no reply.

Crowley curses as he realises the angel must have already left to walk to Fortnum’s; it isn’t far and the angel always claims to enjoy strolling through London when the weather’s mild.

His mouth twists in displeasure. Well… he’ll just have to disappoint Aziraphale and apologise later. A bottle of the classier vintage of Rhone wine and cakes from Patisserie Valerie usually do the trick. Another grimace: _this had better not take long,_ he thinks. Crowley has become used to being left alone and is feeling pissy and inconvenienced.

* * *

It has often been mentioned how little imagination Hastur and the old-guard hierarchy of Hell possess - and this is true. But what they do possess is a sort of dogged determination towards ruination and pain that means they have the patience to saw your elbow all the way through using nothing but a cheese grater.

Hastur’s still not forgiven Crowley for what he’d done to Ligur - although being a demon that’s not surprising. But he had become set on thinking up something extra-special for Mr Slick - Mr Swagger - who thinks he’s so much better than everyone else.

Hastur is not a naturally inventive demon, so it’s taken him nearly two years to come up with something suitable. Procuring what he needs hasn’t been easy either… But at last he is ready. He’s even tested his theory out on a minor demon and been immensely satisfied with the results.

He knows Crowley is immune to holy water - although how the bastard’s managed _that_ is anybody’s guess. But then Hastur got to thinking - what if he’s only immune from the outside? After all, dipping someone in milk and arsenic just makes them wet and poisonous to lick. You have to open them up and ram the mixture down their throat before you can watch them foam at the mouth and puke their guts on the floor… And who’s to say it’s not the same for one very irritating, swaggering demon?

* * *

Crowley is ushered down a badly lit corridor that’s clad in tiles the colour of putrefaction. “Is this new? Love what you’ve done with the place…”

The demonic aid-de-camp who’s accompanying him looks confused and decides it’s safer not to comment. They’ve heard stories about Crowley.

Unlike many large organisations, Hell doesn’t arrange its rooms in any particular grouping - other than the Pits on the lowest level of course. This means that a room for marketing might be next to a room for torture, which in turn is next to the cafeteria. It keeps everyone on their toes and insures the wailing of damned souls is spread about more uniformly.

The lesser demon who escorted him checks the room number against their clipboard. “You’re expected by Duke Hastur in there.” They wave Crowley forward.

Crowley gives an alarmingly wide grin that doesn’t reach his eyes: they’re hidden by his sunglasses, so the aid-de-camp is none the wiser. _Let’s see what the bastard wants then…_ He opens the door and steps through.

Two demons who’d been at either side of the door when Crowley entered now move smartly behind him, blocking his exit. They are the burlier sort, very broad-shouldered, or what passes for shoulders anyway. Hastur is standing towards the middle of the room and wearing an unpleasant expression that’s probably meant to be a smile.

“Oh, one of _those_ sort of meetings,” Crowley says trying to sound indifferent. “Will this take long? Only I’m meant to be joining a friend for lunch…”

The upper echelons of Hell go in for periodic torture sessions against demons who’ve displeased them. It’s all par for the course in a place that sees the removal of fingernails more as a practical joke than actual torture.

“The first bit won’t take long at all,” assures Hastur in a voice that sounds like cigarette ends and dead frogs.

Crowley eyes the table in the centre of the room; it’s bolted to the floor and looks like it is able to tilt on a vertical axis. It’s also outfitted with several leather straps. It looks like an operating table from a low budget horror film. Crowley wonders if he’s going to leave with his teeth in his pocket - or his spleen. But then he sees the trolley behind the table - the type that’s usually set out with blades and pliers in the aforementioned sort of horror film - and it holds some folded cloth and several large jugs of something.

 _Waterboarding?_ he thinks, surprised. _Humans and their nasty ideas._ Well this was certainly going to be unpleasant. Not what he’d expected from Hastur: it wasn’t very traditional for a start. Maybe he’d read the report on CIA torture and decided to give it a go? A small worm of doubt squirms in Crowley’s gut because he has to be missing something: being made to feel he’s drowning for eternity, that was a bit… _psychological_ for Hell.

He gives an insouciant sniff. “Let’s get on with it then…” The two guards escort him to the table and set about securing him to it. It’s hard to look cool and dignified whilst being strapped to a table, but Crowley makes a valiant attempt. He does give a little hiss when Hastur takes his sunglasses but at least he doesn’t flinch; he’ll take his victories where he can find them.

Crowley’s imagination is phenomenal and he’s quite prepared to imagine he won’t be drowning - can’t be that hard can it? After all, waterboarding _doesn’t_ drown you, that’s the whole point. You just have to imagine yourself somewhere better, whilst strapped down, as some sadist pours water in your face. For the love of Creation! He’d driven the Bentley in flames hot enough to discorporate Hastur (ha! - that fucking twat - there was a thought to smile about). Not drowning? Piece of cake really…

“I wonder if you’ll be smiling in a minute?” Hastur asks nastily before tipping the table so Crowley’s feet are higher than his head and laying the piece of cloth over his face like most people would lay a dinner-napkin on their lap: with hungry expectation.

Precisely seven seconds later, the water rains down in a torrential flood over Crowley’s head. Only it isn’t water. It _burns_. The shock of it makes him gasp, dragging droplets of it into his throat, then he tries to cough and it gets snorted through his sinuses until he feels like his head is on fire. His eyes are surely melting and his tongue’s peeling and he can’t imagine a damn thing.

* * *

Hell is aware that torture is a question of time versus determination. The more determination possessed, the longer it takes to break you. The first sign that a body is nearing breaking point, isn’t the screaming. It’s the involuntary and unstoppable shiver that is the beginning of shock, and the animal flinch of pure terror away from those inflicting the damage. Occasionally unconsciousness or catatonia follow. But, connoisseurs agree, that just makes the follow-up session all the more satisfying. There is, coincidentally, often a lot of screaming involved too.

* * *

Demons don’t need to breathe. Crowley studiously got into the habit of it after a particularly cold morning in 1546 when he’d almost been discorporated by an over zealous blacksmith who’d noticed his breath didn’t steam in the winter air. (As it was he’d had his arm broken by a set of tongs before he’d managed to get away. It had been a most unpleasant experience.)

Crowley’s trying to forget how to breathe now, but even that’s not really the problem. It’s that there’s too much liquid filling his nose and mouth: it’s forcing its way past his gag reflex and is slowly blistering his throat and burning its way into his lungs. There’s an overpowering scent, like fruit juice and tannin, but the demon can’t see how that’s a very important detail right now; it’s just something his brain gibbers to itself as it waits to melt.

By the third jug Crowley is wondering if his pride or sanity is worth it and if he shouldn’t just beg Hastur to stop - or at least take a break for a spot of gloating. But then the fourth jug is poured over him and it becomes a moot point. By the fifth jug Crowley is shaking: it’s a purely physical response to the pain that he wishes would stop, but his will - like his imagination - is failing him. By the sixth jug, Crowley would like to scream because the agony of it is magnesium-bright; but screaming isn’t an option: the whole world has turned to vitriol and liquid fire and there isn’t any air. He’s struggling against the straps with all that he has: his wings try to manifest in defence but he’s tied down to a damn table so that just makes everything worse.

Hastur pauses after jug number six, even takes the cloth away from Crowley’s face to admire his handiwork as the other demon twitches and splutters. “That’s what you never understood,” he says conversationally. “The personal touch. It’s so much better when you take the time to really _work_ at something. Craftsmanship. Letting the punishment fit the crime.” He grabs Crowley’s chin and turns his head to both sides and then as an after thought pries open one of his eyes to look at that. He grins, although Crowley doesn’t really see it. “Not so flash now, pretty boy… I’m glad the holy water didn’t do for you. This is muchmore satisfying.” Hastur takes the dog-end of a cigarette from behind his rancid ear and considers smoking it, then changes his mind and tucks it back for later. “Blessed water destroys us, body and soul. But d’you know what else there is? Communion wine. Now for some reason, that’s not as holy - but it’ll burn your insides like nobody’s business.”

* * *

There are three liquids used by the church in various practices. Water, wine and oil. The water of the baptismal font will obliterate a demon from creation. Blessed oil will burn their skin like acid. And sacramental wine, if drunk, will slowly poison them from the inside out.

There is no doubt a complex theological reason why the liquids behave so differently. It has probably been written about by a Christian monk in a long abandoned monastery, or a15th century Jewish student of the Cabala. However, if such a manuscript existed it has been lost to history and long since turned to dust.

* * *

Crowley isn’t really listening to Hastur, his thoughts have been turned small by the pain. About the only sane thought that registers through the agony is, _How many more fucking jugs are there?_

It turns out there are six more. Hastur likes to be thorough, so when he procured the wine he got a case of twelve.

Crowley is not the same demon who sauntered into hell an hour ago. His hair’s sticky with wine and his jacket reeks of it. The skin around his eyes is red and swollen and he doesn’t think he can open them. His lips are cracked and his nose has been bleeding - he looks like he’s snorted cocaine cut with bleach. He makes no move when he’s unstrapped from the table - he can barely think, he certainly can’t stand. Eventually his coughing up of alcohol rolls him off the table and lands him on the floor where he spits and drips wine miserably. His wings manifest fully with a snap; they’re the only bit of him that still looks sleek and cared for. He struggles to fold them away before Hastur gets any more clever ideas.

“Get him up,” Hastur orders the two guards.

They do; Crowley hangs between them taking small stuttering breaths.

Hastur unfolds Crowley’s sunglasses and puts them on him with a spiteful smile. “I wonder how long you’ll last? Don’t worry - I’ll be sure to have another case set by for you when you drop back in.” He gives a shrill and horrible laugh before seeming to remember himself. Hastur glowers at the guards. “What are you two waiting for? Get him out of here.”

Crowley is dragged through Hell and deposited unceremoniously on the escalator that leads to the earthly realm. Somehow he manages to get to his hands and knees when he reaches the top and crawls off before collapsing onto the polished floor of the Celestial Hierarchy’s earthly offices. He lies there for some minutes, shivering, and trying to gather the wherewithal to move. Some instinct warns him it will only get harder as time marches on and he has no wish to be caught napping on Heaven and Hell’s doorstep.

“Fuck you, Hastur,” he rasps, because spite is a wonderful motivator, and drags himself unsteadily to his feet.

* * *

He isn’t certain how he makes it to Aziraphale’s bookshop; some homing instinct and a minor miracle perhaps? But he doesn’t waste time on it. There is something very wrong with his lungs - well, most of him if he’s honest - and he can’t really see, and he’s starting to feel very scared. He _cannot_ discorporate and face Hastur again when he feels like this.

“Aziraphale?” he tries to shout, staggering through the door and setting the bell jangling wildly. His throat’s on fire and his lungs feel like they’re burning and drowning simultaneously and that can’t be good. _“A-Angel?”_ It comes out more as a wheeze than a shout. “‘Ziraphale?” His voice sounds torn, he wobbles, convulses, and spits an alarming amount of blood on to the floor, his throat blazing with iron and sacrament. Another shudder and another retched mouthful of blood and something inside him feels ruptured - _fuck that hurts_ \- his knees fold and he’s on the ground, one hand braced against the boards, one across his stomach. _Please not again,_ he thinks, blood and holiness dripping from his lips and he keels to the side with a shiver. He’s convulsing and choking and - _Huh,_ he thinks. _I was right. It got worse…_

“Crowley - is that you?” the angel sounds annoyed. “I must say it was dreadfully rude of you to… Oh my heavens!” He runs to his side. “What on earth happened?”

The demon chokes up another mouthful of wine-tainted blood. “Hastur,” he manages bitterly and goes still.

* * *

Miracles upon a demon’s person are tricky things. Possible by all means, but… tricky. Angels don’t often go around healing the Fallen, but, well one heard stories that usually seemed to involve the demon in question manifesting extra limbs or going insane. The process is safer if one knows exactly what needs to be healed. But the person who knows in this scenario is Crowley, who’s in no fit state to do anything other than cough blood or lie very still and look corpse-like.

All Aziraphale thinks safe to do is to keep miracle-ing a general sort of wellness, little and often. (An astute analogy would be like treating an unknown illness with broad-spectrum antibiotics and hoping for the best - although Aziraphale doesn’t know anything about antibiotics so would never say that.)

The angel is diligent in other ways too: the bookshop is locked and the blood sent away from the floor. The excess of red wine the demon seems to be covered in is similarly disposed of and his clothes, boots and glasses are exchanged for a set of plain grey silk pyjamas. He’s put to bed in the flat above the bookshop with a towel beneath his head for the mouthfuls of blood he periodically coughs up. Then the angel sits on the edge of the bed with a flannel and a bowl of warm water and delicately cleans the discharge from his eyes, the dried blood from his nose and the fresher drops that cling to his lips. He does this for the rest of the evening and long into the night, casting small and gentle miracles as he does so, willing the demon to get better - or at least, not get any worse.

* * *

Someone is stroking Crowley’s hair, their fingers running through the strands by his left ear. It’s odd, but nice he decides. It seems caring - protective almost. He sighs: immediately the hand retreats with a guilty air. He makes a frustrated noise - damn his throat hurts, everything does really, his lungs feel hollow - and twitches his fingers in the direction of where the hand might have gone.

“Oh!” someone says quietly and after a moment the hand returns, fingers carding softly against his scalp and occasionally brushing the top of his ear. He doesn’t know where he is but he’s safe and warm and loved.

 _Not such a bad place to die after all,_ he thinks.

* * *

Crowley sleeps for the next seven days with little sign of improvement. The severity of his cough has abated from terrifying to merely alarming, but he has periodic nosebleeds and his eyes still weep. By day eleven Aziraphale dares to hope he has a little colour back in his cheeks and that the haemorrhaging of his lungs might have stopped at last. On day fifteen the demon stirs.

He tries to open his eyes; they feel dry and crusted with fluid, his eyelashes stuck together.

“Crowley?”

“Nnn?”

“If you give me a moment, I can help…”

A warm flannel is pressed carefully against one of his eyelids, methodically washing away whatever it had been stuck together with. The sound of the flannel being rinsed out in a bowl of water comes next, and the operation is repeated on the other eye.

“There, I think that’s better.” A hand is pressed solicitously to his shoulder. “How do you feel?”

 _Bloody awful, obviously,_ Crowley thinks, but that’s snappish and he’s in no mood for an argument. “Not well,” he mumbles and _hellfire_ talking hurts. Crowley’s eyelids stutter open. He blinks, blinks again and then swallows. “I can’t see,” he says in a small dead voice.

“My dear…”

_“My eyes, angel - I can’t fucking see.”_

Aziraphale sees them for only a second before they’re closed again and swallows hard so as not to gasp or utter any foolish little exclamation that would make matters worse. The beautiful sun-serpent eyes are empty, and the rancid colour of buttercream and blisters.

Crowley’s said the words but he can’t bear the enormity of them: they seem to be circling the inside of his head, gaining momentum and gravity until he’s pressed down by them, unable to move. Slowly, as if the bed is broken glass rather than clean sheets, he curls onto his side, pulling his legs to his chest and shuddering with the horror of what Hastur had wrought.

The angel unfurls his wings, because that is how angels shield the beings within their care, and gathers the demon into his embrace, holding him tightly as he shakes with misery, curling his wings about Eden’s serpent as he makes ragged keening noises.

 _Oh my dear,_ he thinks with anguish. And, _Sleep,_ he wills. _I have you. You’re safe. Please sleep…_

The keening quiets and eventually the shaking stops as Crowley grows heavier in the angel’s arms.

Aziraphale strokes the edge of the demon’s face like someone tracing their fingertips down something broken, caressing the fault lines. “Your beautiful eyes,” he murmurs sadly. _  
_

* * *

It’s another three days until Crowley wakes again. For the majority of London it’s 10.40am on a bright and breezy day, but for the demon the time makes no difference because he is still in darkness. He begins to panic, but a second later it’s all coming back to him and he doesn’t know whether misery or fury has the upper hand.

“Aziraphale?” he rasps. “Aziraphale?” he calls again, his voice louder and with a note of desperation now, but what does that matter? And then he’s coughing and there’s a sharp cold ache behind his sternum like a blade of ice… He’s hunched over and there’s something brackish and metallic at the back of his throat and he can’t tell whether he needs to cough or throw up…

Suddenly there is the warmth of a hand at his back and it feels like the edge of a ceramic basin has pressed against his chest.

“It’s alright…”

He coughs a mouthful of something that smells of iron and rot and shudders. The basin has gone and hands are fussing him back against pillows. He remembers that disease that was all the rage back in the 19thcentury - the one all the poets had. _Oh, yeah, great, I’m a blind consumptive demon!_ He wants to laugh but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea and he isn’t sure he has the energy.

“Really, you mustn’t exert yourself! We’ve no idea of the damage that’s been done…”

“I think I’m a sodding blind consumptive demon,” he says wretchedly, “how’s that for starters?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the angel says gently. “We’ll find a way to fix this. But first of all, I shall make some tea. And you can tell me what happened.”

The angel makes him some sort of concoction that if he didn’t know better he’d swear was made of honey, lemon, and laudanum, and places it carefully in the demon’s hands once it’s cool enough to sip. It eases his throat, but drinking it makes him feel queasy and the last thing he wants to do is throw up. He manages about half the cup.

“You can drink a little more,” Aziraphale chivvies.

“No. No I really can’t.” He’s tired and miserable and he feels shaky and weak and small - and he fucking hates it. Not to mention he’s counting drinking tea without spilling it over himself as An Achievement - and how pathetic is that?

The angel takes the cup from him and does another little miracle, one for regaining strength.

Crowley feels it and shivers, the back of his scalp tingling. “What did you just do?”

“Oh dear - you, I mean, you haven’t grown a tale or something?”

“What are you _talking_ about, angel?” He speaks too loudly and his lungs hitch and his throat feels like sandpaper someone is gleefully striking matches down. He winces and coughs.

“The Heavenly healing of a demon. It’s a very delicate art - a lot can go wrong. Do you feel up to doing a little will-working of your own?”

He closes his eyes - not that it makes any difference, but he has the overwhelming urge to cry. “Can’t,” he whispers. He’s tried, but there’s nothing there. “Running on empty.”

“What happened to you?”

“Hastur dunked my head in a case of wine,” he admits tiredly.

“Well I don’t see why that should have affected you… oh. Yes, I see _that_ might have had an effect.”

“What?”

“Communion wine.”

The demon feels nauseous and concentrates extremely hard on not being sick. “So why didn’t it…”

“Oh, it’s not as potent as holy water. It, ah, impacts in other ways.”

“You think?” Crowley mutters despondently. It’s all too much and he doesn’t want to deal with it. “I’m - I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

“…Of course,” the angel says quietly.

* * *

Later, Crowley half wakes, struggling from a dream of drowning, one hand clawing against the water, only to find that he is loosely cocooned in an arc of feathers. They are very soft against his fingertips - a little more fluffy than sleek - but lovely all the same. There is a faint scent of fresh linen, wild honey, and old books about them. Maybe Earl Grey tea as well now he thinks about it. It’s familiar, comforting and warm. He slips back into sleep and does not dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Trying to write Hastur as foul and vindictive as he is, without coming across as pantomime, is quite the juggling act.
> 
> \- For the curious, the drink Aziraphale made Crowley was a warmed tincture of lemon, honey, and a lot of laudanum =P


	2. Chapter 2

Another six days of sleep and many constant yet very small miracles later, and Crowley’s cough has gone, as has his nausea. His eyes remain unchanged however. It’s a hard thing, between one second to the next of waking, to travel from elation of your body’s health to despair. Crowley deals with it by swearing very loudly, first in English and then in Enochian, a language that hasn’t passed his lips since the Fall.

“There is no need for that language!” Comes the shocked call back from somewhere else in the flat.

“My eyes are still fucked!” Crowley growls miserably.

“Well can you - have you recharged, as it were?”

A pause followed by a frustrated and wordless shout.

“That would be a ‘no’ then,” Aziraphale mutters to himself.

Crowley spends the rest of the morning in bed, curled beneath the covers, refusing tea, sulking furiously, and considering whether to sleep for the next decade. Most of him is very keen on the idea, but there’s a little voice of spite and defiance at the back of his head that won’t shut up no matter how much he screams at it.

Eventually, annoyed with himself, he throws the duvet back and gets out of bed before gingerly working his way to the nearest wall, tasting air-currents as he goes. He trips over a chair - but manages to catch himself - before realising he should pay more attention to the ambient heat signatures within the room. Being a serpent has its advantages, after all. A shaky and short-range simulacrum of the room comes to him, shimmering like a heat haze and made of monochromatic patches of warm and cold: light for warmth, darkening as the heat cools. It isn’t as accurate as sight and only extends about a meter and a half in front of him, but it will have to do. Anything that means he doesn’t walk face first into something and pitch up on his arse is a _ble-_ a good thing, he thinks grimly. Still trailing his fingers along the wall he goes to find Aziraphale.

The angel appears in his sensory range very suddenly causing Crowley to tip back in alarm. “Nrrgh!”

“Crowley? Are you alright - what’s wrong?”

“Need to - need to deal with some stuff. I'm going to my flat. Answerphone to water, plants to check. That kinda thing.”

“Crowley,” he says reasonably, “You can’t possibly go to your flat. You’re wearing pyjamas. And - and…” He doesn’t want to say it. _“You’re blind,”_ he ends quietly.

The demon looks down his nose at him, blank and imperious. “I’m not. Well, I am. But I bet I can walk round your flat. Bet I can walk round the bookshop. Bet I can make you tea.”

Aziraphale doesn’t like this challenge, he fears what it will do to the demon’s pride when he fails. But Crowley has already let go of the wall and is moving past him at a steady and determined pace, forcing the angel to trail behind anxiously.

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley navigates the flat perfectly. The stairs give him pause, but then he seems to realign himself and attune to what they are, managing to walk down without further hesitation. The bookshop is next, and again Crowley makes his circuit, even weaving round the standing shelves and display tables on the floor without falter. The angel is frowning though: something is very wrong - something so vast and fundamental that he can’t put his finger on it…

The knowledge hits him so hard he feels it as a punch to the solar plexus and actually exhales a little huff.

Crowley turns to him. “What?”

“Nothing,” the angel says brightly, his eyes stinging with salt. _Oh my dear…_ The demon no longer saunters: he’s lost his swagger. His stance is more upright and precise, made with care.

“D’you want me to make tea as well?” he dares.

“No - no I don’t think that will be necessary. Although, there is still the question of the pyjamas.”

The demon shrugs, indifferent. “It’s London - who’s gonna care?”

Aziraphale tuts, frets, and then makes a gesture with his hand.

Crowley is now dressed in Chelsea boots and a narrow-cut three piece suit. His fingertips prod at the shirt collar and silk tie experimentally. “What colour are they? If you say ‘tartan’ I swear to Someone…”

“The suit is black, the shirt is grey and the tie burgundy, if you must know.”

“Thankss,” the demon mumbles awkwardly.

“Your sunglasses are in the breast pocket.”

He fishes them out carefully and shields his eyes behind them before giving a little nod. “Right. I’ll - I’ll see you around then.”

The angel winces at the irony, but Crowley doesn’t seem to have noticed and is leaving the bookshop, the bell above the door giving a mournful little jangle as he does so.

Aziraphale dithers. Walking around a bookshop is not the same as walking London’s streets. There are people hurrying everywhere and omnibuses and automobiles and hackney carriages! London’s - London’s _fast_. And he isn’t certain Crowley can navigate life at the speed he once did…

* * *

The figure with dark red hair, wearing an immaculate example of Jermyn Street tailoring, stops quite suddenly in the middle of Old Compton Street. The throng of pedestrians are forced to part around him in irritation. He raises his voice. “Are you gonna follow me _all_ the bloody way?”

A reluctant angel hurries to his side. “I just wanted to… keep an eye.”

Crowley makes a sour ‘tch’ noise. “Come on then,” he orders.

Aziraphale’s smile grows.

* * *

Crowley’s flat is not what Aziraphale is expecting, although to be honest he wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s very modern and… dramatic, which does suit Crowley, he supposes. It’s a contrast study in dark and light: the windows and skylights are vast, casting blocks of sunlight across the grey slate-clad walls and the polished concrete floor. It’s very open, clean and minimalist, without books or clutter; but there is art. There’s a beautiful amphora in the study along with an exquisite little statuette of Bast, her royal jewellery worked in gold. There’s an early sketch of the Mona Lisa - signed. There’s a vivid contemporary sculpture of two angels fighting. And by the door there’s a large marble lectern in the shape of an eagle - which the angel is certain he’s seen before.

Crowley walks to the study, glares at the answer machine, and then carefully navigates his fingertips to the right button to check his messages, of which there is one.

A moment later Aziraphale hears Crowley yelp and slam something against something else. “What’s going on?” The angel hurries to see and meets Crowley leaving his study. The demon looks rather pale and is shaking out his hand and wincing. “What happened?”

“I need a new answer machine,” Crowley says darkly, muttering foul things in Enochian. One of which may or may not have been calling Hastur a cunt.

Aziraphale resists the urge to put his fingers in his ears.

Next Crowley goes to the sitting room - or what the angel assumes is the sitting room: on one side is a large grey sofa with a marble-topped coffee table in front of it; the other side of the room is filled with plants. “Oh!” he exclaims, delighted, before that joy dims. They had obviously been gorgeously verdant before Crowley was ill, but had been abandoned without care for twenty-four days. Even so the plants seemed to be trying their hardest, almost standing to attention for the demon, best leaves forward.

Crowley looks at them blindly, seething and upset because although he knows they’re there, he can’t tell exactly how they’re doing.

The plants shiver.

It would be just his luck if half of them were dead. “Are - are they…?”

“Oh my dear they’re simply beautiful!” He surreptitiously miracles one or two of them that have started to wilt. “What fantastic care you take of them! Although they do look a little parched - where’s your watering can?”

“Kitchen. Under the sink. There’s a plant mister too.”

Aziraphale bustles off, leaving Crowley to try and fail to assess the health and beauty of his plants when he can't even see the colour green any more...

The kitchen is as stream-line as the rest of the flat with black granite counters. Aziraphale is intrigued to note through the steel and frosted-glass of the cupboards that it’s well stocked with Le Creuset pans and utensils (in Flint) and food from Fortnum’s. He fills the watering can and plant mister and returns to the little solarium. “Here you go my dear,” he says, offering the can to Crowley.

“You do it,” he says quietly, something hard and defeated in his voice.

The angel tries to sound cheerful. “If you’re certain, I’d be delighted to…” He is delighted, or at least he would be if Crowley weren’t so unhappy. He takes his time, treating them with the care and attention they are obviously accustomed to: smoothing dust from leaves, watering, misting and finally adjusting the rotation of the pots so the plants may sun different bits of foliage. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “All done… What now?”

“I need a drink.”

They walk up the road to The Lyric and drink whisky, sharing a bottle between them. Then they leave and turn right onto Archer Street, heading up and round until they find The Groucho on Dean Street. The Groucho had been Crowley’s suggestion, but once there it grates on his nerves, so they leave after one glass. “How about the French House?” Aziraphale suggests. “I prefer the atmosphere there anyway - it’s cosy.”

The demon looks about to agree when he suddenly twitches - he does not want to be in a French wine bar right now. “No, not there.” They go to Old Compton Street and Bar Soho instead, demolishing several cocktails in various lurid colours, some of which include umbrellas. After that they pitch up at The Three Grey Hounds, only a few doors down from the bookshop.

The drink seems to soothe the demon’s mood and mellow the angel’s worry. At ten when they leave the pub, Aziraphale is able to ask with his usual tipsy hospitality, “Care for a nightcap?” and the demon is able to give a little smile and nod.

* * *

Sitting at the table at the back of the bookshop, Aziraphale notices the demon doesn’t slouch or loll in his chair, as if he doesn’t trust himself to be at ease anymore. This upsets him and brings rather a lot of his worry rushing back in an unwelcome tide. He busies himself making a plate of exceptionally thin and perfectly crisp pieces of toast spread with duck pate - just in case anyone gets peckish. That doesn’t distract him for long however, the problem of how to deal with Hell is still there when he puts the plate on the table.

“Have - have they changed their mind?”

“What? _Who?”_ Crowley seems to be lost in the middle of a conversation that never happened.

“Hell. Have they changed their mind about… leaving you alone?” It’s as well that Crowley can’t see the angel’s expression, because it’s utterly wretched.

“Oh. No, Hell would still rather ignore me. It’s just Hastur. _Toad brained bastard.”_

“Will he try again, d’you think?”

“How the hell should I know?” he says bitterly. “Although he did seem to think it would discorporate me slowly and in agonies, so I expect he’ll be twiddling his thumbs for a while waiting for me to turn up.”

“I don’t suppose he bargained on any angelic interventions.” His tone is shy.

“I don’t suppose he did.”

“We should make preparations.”

Crowley’s scathing. “I don’t think you can prepare for a Duke of Hell.”

“There are certain wards and protections…”

“I’m a demon - how do you ward a demon from another demon?!”

“I shall look into it,” he says with serenity. “Leave it with me.”

The angel does have a significant collection of occult books, Crowley concedes. There might be something - it was worth a try at least. He shrugs. “Suit yourself… The worst of it is, I don’t think I can drink Chateauneuf-du-Pape ever again.” Even the thought of it makes him want to throw up.

“Really, I don’t think that was the worst of it,” the angel disagrees.

“Says you,” Crowley mutters, because he’s a demon and he has his pride.

“There still whisky,” the angel consoles. “And I do believe I have a very good bottle of Napoleonic brandy in the back - an 1816 vintage that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

The demon brightens and nods.

* * *

Aziraphale is on his third glass of brandy, Crowley on his fifth: it is an exceptionally fine vintage.

In a state of inebriated grace more common in humans than angels, Aziraphale has a small epiphany: he recalls where he’s seen the lectern that sits in Crowley’s flat. “Church of St Andrew,” he utters. “Holborn…”

“Hm?” Being drunk is interfering with Crowley’s new alternative to sight; the heat signals and air-currents are wobbling more than usual. He’s even taken off his glasses to see if that will help. It doesn’t, obviously, but he’s drunk so hasn’t worked out why.

“The lectern - the marble eagle! You have it in your flat,” he accuses.

“Er…” Crowley’s brain seems to have frozen.

“Why is it in your flat?” the angel asks quietly.

“Souvenir? I mean, foiling a Nazi plot - who wouldn’t want a souvenir?” He’s trying to be casual, injecting a little rock-and-roll indifference into his words but it’s not working and he knows it not. He can hear himself - he sounds ridiculous. But Aziraphale seems to consider this and accept it, much to the demon’s relief. Crowley goes back to enjoying his drink.

“Even if it was a souvenir... It’s an odd coincidence, seeing it again, in your flat.” Aziraphale twists his glass in his hand and watches the bronze-dark liquid swirl back and fourth. When he speaks again, he's quiet but resolute: “After all, that was the night I fell in love with you…”

The demon chokes on his brandy.

“We hadn’t spoken for so long, and - and then you just turned up - in a _church!_ Claiming to be looking out for me… Then you offered the spies mercy...” 

_“They were never gonna take it,”_ he mumbles.

“And then you saved my books." His voice, even now, is infused with gratitude over the gesture. "I couldn’t help but see you in a different light after that. But I…” he stalls and sighs. “I still had faith you see. I wasn't free to admit my own feelings. I still believed in Heaven’s Plan. And one of the Host would never be allowed to love a demon...” He risks a look at Crowley.

Crowley appears to be vibrating slightly and looking panicked; he’s standing now, rising uncertainly from his chair, one hand on the table, scrabbling to find his glasses.

Aziraphale is immediately remorseful. _You foolish Principality,_ he thinks. He hurries to stand at Crowley’s side, to stop him from leaving before this fracture between them becomes a rift. “That was such a selfish and thoughtless thing for me to say - I’m so sorry! Will you please forgive me? After all you’ve been through, to let my emotions intrude like that, and…”

Crowley lurches to the right and flings his arms around Aziraphale, griping tightly around shoulders and torso like a drowning sailor with a spar of wood. “Don’t you dare take that back now, angel,” he says desperately. “Don’t be that much of a bastard, I couldn’t stand it.” He tries to laugh but it comes out wrong, sounding more like a sob.

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what to do with the situation, but he knows how to cherish and protect and so that’s what he does, wrapping his arms around the demon who’s still clinging, collapsed against him. “I think the brandy’s made us both a little over-wrought,” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley’s head lifts and, _“I’m not fucking over-wrought - I’ve been in love with you since Eden!”_ His forehead bows to rest, defeated, against the lapels of the angel’s coat because that confession is the longest-kept secret of his life and what the hell is he meant to do now?

“Since Eden?” His voice is very small.

“I ask questions,” Crowley mumbles, “Always have. That’s what got me in trouble back in the beginning. _‘Why?’_ was always a good one…” A snigger. “But you? Bloody Principality of the Eastern Gate - you didn’t ask - you jus’ straight up saw Humanity was cold and defenceless and gave them your flaming sword!” He laughs wildly but there’s a hitch in his throat because he’s crying too.

“W-well, I…”

He sniffs a bit, backing away from hysteria. “An’ for your next trick, what d’you do? You see the Serpent of Eden, tempter to Original Sin, and you chat philosophy! Oh but that's not the best bit - you only go an' tell him - a demon - what you did!” He wants to laugh again but knows that’s a bad idea so strives for calm. "Along comes the rain... and you shield me from it."

"I'm an angel. It's our nature..."

 _"Not for the rest of them it's not."_ At last he manages a shuddering sigh. “My rebellion’s got nothing on yours, angel.”

Aziraphale moves very carefully: raising a hand to touch the back of his fingers to the edge of the demon’s jaw. “Might you look at me a moment? Please?”

Crowley lifts his head. He can only sense the angel as different heat patterns, as the softest of vibration of breath and pulse. He can’t read his expression at all. The heat patterns shift, dipping down to come nearer. “What…” His question is closed, gently but insistently with a languid kiss. Once it is broken, it takes a moment for the demon to find his voice. “C-can I…?”

“I wish you would,” Aziraphale smiles.

There’s a desperation to Crowley’s kiss, like someone running out of oxygen, straining for another breath. He moves his left palm to rest against the back of the angel’s collar, against the nape of his neck and the curls of his hair. His desperation is more sorrowful now: someone who has been given all they have ever wanted and knows it’s not their’s to keep. The passion in him stills and comes to a reluctant stop; he rests his cheek against Aziraphale’s; his heart is rabbiting in his chest and he doesn’t know how to breathe.

"Why do you have the St Andrew lectern in your flat?"

"To remind me. That I'd made you happy..."

The angel is concerned that if he doesn’t keep hold of Crowley then he’ll simply drop to the floor: a marionette with cut strings. “My dear, we should go upstairs to bed.”

“What sort of bed?”

“Mine, the one you’ve been in for nearly a month.”

“No, I mean…” Crowley trails off, no longer sure what he means. Something is fizzing at the back of his skull: something like a heavenly miracle, or demonic intervention. An integral piece of him that Hastur broke is waking up and starting to heal. “I - I think…” He snaps his fingers and immediately winces, eyes scrunched shut in pain: that felt like a crowbar to the skull.

“That was _foolhardy,”_ the angel scolds. “Besides if you wished to be back in pajamas you could have asked.”

His head is pounding now. “I felt it come back… Jus’… jus’ wanted t’see…”

Aziraphale thinks he understands: Crowley hadn’t known whether his demonic powers would return; another fear he’d suffered under. “Let’s get you to bed.” Trying to manhandle one tall, lanky and semi-conscious demon upstairs seems a battle not worth fighting. With a little sigh, Aziraphale, still holding tight to Crowley with his left arm, snaps his fingers. They’re transported to the bedroom of the upstairs flat where Aziraphale tidies the demon under a duvet, lies down beside him, and - as has become a habit - curls his wings about them both.

* * *

It’s almost noon and they are sitting in the tea rooms at Fortnum’s. Crowley is on his third espresso and is behaving like a student with their first hangover: bleary and wincing and uncertain if they remember the night before. But Aziraphale has eaten scones with a pot of Earl Grey tea and is quietly optimistic.

“You know my dear, I was considering a change of scene.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at that.

“I rather thought it might be nice on the Downs.”

“The where?”

“The Sussex Downs. You know, the Longman of Wilmington. By the sea.”

Crowley as a rule has never paid attention to geography unless he’s required to go there. “Is that one of those hillside chalk things with a giant cock?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yes - well no, not a, a - oh dear…”

Crowley gives a little smile at the angel being flustered, but a moment later the smile’s slipped away. “I’m sure it will suit you.” He drinks the dregs of his coffee. “Very… picturesque.”

The angel blinks and looks nervous. “I - I was wondering, that is I had thought… Perhaps you might like to come with me?”

Crowley’s chin snaps up sharply at that. “Come with you?” his voice sounds scratchy and strange.

“Yes.”

He tries to regain his rapidly failing composure. “Hol-holiday by the sea? By a chalk man with a giant cock?” he says because he’s a demon and perfectly capable of childishness.

“Crowley…”

“Yeah," he gives a shaky grin. "Might be nice.”

The angel beams.

* * *

They buy an Oast house in Folkington and line one of the roundel rooms with bookshelves. The garden has a greenhouse, a beautiful piece of Victorian engineering along the lines of a miniature Crystal Palace. (They bring the Bentley too of course, and Crowley waits for the day he can drive it down narrow Sussex lanes at 100mph.)

Crowley’s willpower, imagination, and his ability for demonic interventions returns slowly in the following months of quietude. Bit by bit, he’s able to heal his eyes. Aziraphale thinks they’ve changed colour, becoming tawnier, and tells him so using words like ‘golden’ and ‘lambent’ - the demon just shrugs. He doesn't care what colour they are so long as they work, showing him the emerald green of his plants, and the beauty of Aziraphale's smile. His night vision never regains its full strength and bright lights give him migraines. He considers it a small price to pay.

He begins to slouch in chairs, and there's something more serpentine to the gait of his hips when he walks. He even lets his hair grow long again, which delights the angel as much as the swagger. 

Crowley has a mark on the underside of his left wrist: a very old and complicated sigil within a circle. It took Aziraphale seven hours to inscribe it using pins and India ink that had been infused with herbs and resins. It’s called ‘Defy the Mirror’s Edge’, although its original name is in Aramaic. Whilst it does not make the demon completely invisible to prying eyes, it obscures his aura and makes him damnably hard to find. Scrying, searches and suspicion all run off him like, well… you know.

* * *

The summer after the move, the Longman is vandalized by persons unknown who cut the turf to give him a proudly rampant set of cock and balls.

Aziraphale is furious, but Crowley just laughs. “It wasn’t me!” he objects. (It was not.) “I keep telling you - humans, they do this stuff themselves.” And, still laughing, he miracles the turf back the way it should be. “It’s fine - I put it back.” His angel is still sulking. “It truly wasn’t me.”

Aziraphale softens; he has long since left behind the prissy idea Crowley lies _to_ him and replaced it with the knowledge Crowley lies only _with_ him.

Crowley gives him a sideways and slightly wicked look over the top of his sunglasses. “Tempt you to a spot of lunch, angel?”

The Longman is forgotten. “Oh - that would be lovely!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I decided Communion wine acted similarly to several chemical gases used in WWI: burning, blistering and scarring any soft or internal tissue it touched. 
> 
> \- Yes, Hustur not only tortured Crowley, but then left a message on his answerphone gloating about it.
> 
> \- I read up on sneks and they can smell with their tongues, sense vibrations with their jaws, and snort heat patterns (kinda?) which is neat. But they're also colour blind. Hence why Crowley can vaguely 'see' in a blocky manner.
> 
> \- You don't want to know how long I read through wiki pages to try to find a church that looked right and really was bombed to ruin - not just burnt - in '41 in London's West End. (Many thanks to Laura who succeeded where I failed!)
> 
> \- I'm staying in an Oast house and it's awesome.
> 
> \- I went to the Longman to climb to the top and be witchy with a friend - it was a lot of fun. (The local cider may have helped...) On the way back in Folkington Wood we saw a handsome man with long ginger hair and a snake round his neck. I low-key shirked, 'Crowley!' and ran up asking to pet his python. He was very understanding considering I was obviously mad.
> 
> \- Please do kudos/comment if you enjoyed reading =)


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